The Owl's Talons
by KavenTheHunter
Summary: The story of The Hunter - a deadly, and mysterious warrior in search of his true path in life- and his companions; soon to become his biography (Based on a Dungeons and dragons Campaign)
1. The Hunter

The Owls Talons  
  
Prologue:  
The Hunter  
  
The hunter calmly tossed his cloak about his shoulders. The forest green woolen garment shielded him well from the early frosts of the coming winter. On the Sword Coast, winter would doubtless slow his movements, but there was no time for such things now. The hunt was on.  
  
The local priests of Lathander had commissioned him to track down a rouge cleric that had recently murdered his entire family and resurrected them as zombies. He was rumored to be extremely dangerous, and quite mad. It promised to be an interesting hunt.  
  
Following his sources, he turned northwest off the road twenty miles out of town and set off into the woods. Confident that he could escape most foes that he could not openly battle, the hunter walked openly in the woods pausing occasionally to search for any clues of the elusive cleric's whereabouts. He was a Wild Elf, feeling a natural affinity for the woods. Naturally barbaric and tribal, he was one of the only wild elves in the realms that radiated the sense of calm, cold assurance that marked him as a professional killer among the other warriors of the realms. Not that the hunter enjoyed killing, he simply had no reservations about taking life.  
  
Standing almost six feet tall, the hunter was extremely tall for an elf. The cold Autumn winds blew his long black ponytail about and forced him to pull the lone silver braid from his right temple back over one slender, pointed ear. He walked with an easy grace, his gray travel robe visible whenever the wind blew his cloak out of the way. Wary of all foes but afraid of none, the hunter sought his prey.  
  
Finally, several hours later, he came into an open glade and sensed life. His keen ears caught the sound of some clumsy life form crunching through the fallen leaves towards the glade from the opposite side. The hunter quickly got into a convenient hiding spot blending in easily with the many hues of the autumn forest, and watched.  
  
A short minute later a Bugbear came calmly strolling into the glade. The hunter watched the creature's motions closely, attempting to discern its intent. The bugbear paused for a few seconds, as if trying to get it's bearings and then hoisted it's morningstar and a heavy sack and began wandering away to the west. The hunter, having decided the bugbear was of no real interest and not wanting to walk into a useless fight, was about to proceed on his own path, skirting the glade to turn more northwards, stopped suddenly when the bugbear tripped on a root and fell to the ground. The creature's leather bag fell open, revealing a strange combination of herbs and random, seemingly useless objects.  
  
Spell components, perhaps?  
  
Bugbears cast no spells of their own, but were often enslaved or employed by magic users as servants or bodyguards.  
  
Perhaps a magic user, perhaps a cleric.  
  
The hunter stopped as the beast picked up its fallen commodities. If his hunch were wrong he would have to double back, perhaps losing days the process. But the cleric wasn't going anywhere, and even if this stupid creature wasn't serving the cleric, magic users always made sure to know as much as possible about their surroundings.  
  
The hunter turned and followed the unnoticing pedestrian, flitting through the forest with the speed and stealth of a hunting owl swooping down on its unsuspecting prey.  
  
* * * *  
  
By dusk that evening the hunter was growing tired of following the stupid thing. He decided that he would learn more by just confronting it openly. Knowing, that intimidation would go far with the brutish goblinoid he leapt out of concealment onto the path and began to walk purposefully straight towards the creature.  
  
The Bugbear whirled, totally unnerved by the sudden appearance of this strange and formidable elf, but it was a ferocious creature and its morningstar was off it's shoulder and swinging before the hunter even got off his first question. The bugbear was ferocious, but it was totally outclassed.  
  
The hunter, without even breaking stride dashed in under the bigger creature's reach, slamming his shoulder into its solar plexus and throwing it off its feet. He had a boot-dagger out off its sheath and stabbing downward before the stupid thing even realized what had happened.  
  
A closer inspection of the sack's contents revealed them to indeed be spell components. The Hunter was no expert but he guessed they were for some kind of potion. Once again confident that he was on a track that would lead him to information at least, the hunter set up camp several hundred yards down the trail and awaited the next day's hunt.  
  
The next morning the terrain shifted gradually from the forest to a series of rolling hills. The hunter's natural instincts told him he was getting closer, and he was elated, though not surprised when he came across the revealing tracks of skeletal feet.  
  
* * * *  
  
A few hours of following the tracks brought him to a cave in the sloping side of a hill. The hunter drew near, hiding behind an old ruined brick wall when he heard a voice from within.  
  
"Well Uncle Melvin," the voice queried, "how do you like immortal life? Oh don't be mad Uncle Melvin. C'mon now, stop sulking and tell me about it, It must be fascinating!"  
  
The hunter chuckled, not doubting in any way that he had found his intended prey. He would have rather been able to survey the scene before he entered combat, but there was nothing he could do about it, he could not look into the cave without being spotted by it's inhabitants. He decided he would just have to settle for surprise. The hunter slowly removed a pair of worn, but very well crafted battleaxes from within his cloak, and leapt out of hiding, sprinting silently across the last yards of open ground and into the waiting cave mouth.  
  
The cave was well enough lit by the sun out side, but there were torches hanging from the walls anyway. In their eerie light the hunter found himself facing not only the cleric, but also no less then seven skeletons and zombies.  
  
The hunter's blades were swinging even before his mind could sort out the situation and two of the undead monsters were down before they could recover from the sudden attack. The remaining beasts closed relentlessly and the hunter was forced on defensive.  
The twin battleaxes spun vicious arcs of doom, forcing the undead to approach with caution. Though the axe blades had little effect on the undead corpses, the sheer weight of the weapons allowed them to smash the creatures with their momentum alone, and as soon as one of the creatures got too close the hunter chopped it down with one axe as the other kept it's defensive sweeps in motion.  
  
The cleric was forced to duck an explosion of bone shards as the skeleton that had been his aunt was blasted aside with a skilled axe stroke. He was furious at this strange elf that had broken in and started wreaking havoc on his happy family, and with three of his relatives down and more joining them soon he had to do something.  
  
The hunter heard the altogether to familiar chant of spell casting and knew he was in a desperate situation. Throwing all caution to the wind he attempted a desperate maneuver. Backhand tossing his left-hand axe in the general direction of the chant in hopes of disrupting the spell, he clenched his remaining weapon in both hands and dove into a sort of spinning roll, bowling into the legs of the remaining undead creatures. He took a rip in one shoulder for the effort, but the movement threw his opponents, quite literally off their feet, and more importantly, it bought him time.  
  
The hunter knew that he could not possibly hope to defeat the cleric fast enough to avoid a quartet of angry zombies bearing down on his back. On an impulse, he sprang from the writhing mass of corpses, tearing a torch from the wall he began jabbing at the now rising creatures franticly. The dried flesh was excellent kindling, and the hunter soon had to leap back from the inferno as the creatures burned away. Confident that no more attacks would be forthcoming from the zombies, The hunter calmly turned and faced his chief target.  
  
The cleric, however, had seen the skill of this foreign elf and new he could never win in a direct fight. He was already in the act of spell casting, and before the hunter could close into melee, he dropped a single iron nail to the ground and a cloud of unpenetrable darkness descended upon the cave.  
  
The hunter sprang to the side automatically when the darkness fell, expecting an attack, but as his keen ears caught the sound of running boots racing toward the exit over the screams of burning zombies he recognized the diversion for what it was. He dashed to the cave entrance, reflexively diving into as a roll as he came out of the cloud of darkness and into the harsh daylight. His opponents waiting mace stroke whistled harmlessly overhead.  
  
The cleric, knowing that he had wasted his only chance of escape on the foiled ambush attempt, but confident that he had a chance if he could get in the first strike before his foe stood up, bore in, mace swinging a powerful stroke down wards. The hunter was more than up to the challenge. He met the attack kneeling, following up with a low swipe to his standing foe's knees. The cleric stepped back from the attack, pivoting to come in with a long, lateral stroke, which the skilled elf ducked.  
  
The hunter, with a short hop, put his feet beneath him and sprang up, his battleaxe leading the way in a vicious uppercut. When the cleric skipped back, he followed with a deceptively quick sideswipe. The cleric went to strike the axe away, but hunter pulled his cut, jabbing the top of the axe-head straight out into his chest. Winded and stumbling back the cleric barely got his mace up to deflect the next attack, and the iron club flew away, leaving him defenseless.  
  
The hunter came in fast and hard.  
  
* * * *  
  
Three days later, the hunter was back on the road north. The clerics had been more than happy to mend his cloak and wounded shoulder, and the additional money would keep him well fed for some time. All in all the excessive money, gained in under a week, did him well.  
  
He turned northwards, raising the cowl of his cloak against the winter winds, and set off again on his eternal journey. 


	2. The Paladin

Chapter 1:  
The Paladin  
  
Rictor Alexander sat quietly at his seat, sipping his mead and enjoying the warmth of the inn. The wizard school at CandleKeep was not only one of the finest learning academies on the Sword Coast, but it also sported a large and hospitable inn.  
  
Rictor's garb marked him to any observer as a knight of some order. He wore a white surcoat bearing the emblem of Helm, God of Order over a finely crafted breastplate, greaves and gauntlets. A worn but sturdy shield and an elegant looking antique broadsword leaned casually against the side of his bench.  
  
The paladin of Helm looked out over the other patrons of the inn. Many of them wore their weapons easily and appeared to be seasoned adventurers. One particular group caught his attention above all the others. A party of loud and probably extremely drunk mercenaries, bearing the red garments and equipment that marked them as members of the Crimson Shield.  
  
The Crimson Shield was a mercenary company with a poor reputation as drunks, bullies, and ingrates, and this group fit the bill perfectly. They were sitting around a large table in the center of the main hall, singing loudly and shouting jeers at anyone who passed. The heads of several goblins sat in the middle of the table, disgusting "trophies" of fight the group had recently been in. They boasted to any one who would listen of the great battle in which they had killed these creatures, waving the heads about and generally ruining as many appetites as they could.  
  
Rictor had no respect for them. First of all, killing a few goblins was no great feat of expertise for any experienced fighter, but more so, he was disgusted by the callousness and even enjoyment that marked their talk of killing weaker foes. Though goblins were evil creatures, Rictor killed only when he had to, and even then he took no pleasure in it and felt that it was a foul act, unfit for humanity.  
  
Just then, a tallish, lean elf stepped in from the road, and Rictor knew there would be trouble as soon as he saw the looks the Crimson Shield were shooting at the newcomer. The strange elf stepped up to the bar and ordered a mug of some liquor and a skillet of spiced potatoes. Taking his food, he then went over and sat down quietly in a shadowed corner. Withdrawing a dangerous looking battleaxe from his cloak and laying it on the table, he took out a long, curved hunting knife from within his cloak and began slicing the potatoes.  
  
Before long, Rictor noticed a member of the Crimson Shield gesturing towards the elf while speaking to one of his companions and mere seconds later, three of the mercenaries were up and walking towards the silent stranger. The elf obviously saw them coming, for he calmly set down his knife and put a hand on his axe.  
  
The mercenaries swaggered up, and their leader leaned over the table, resting his hands directly in front of the elven stranger.  
  
"Well boys, what have we here?" he declared brashly. "A skinny little pointy ears!" the other two snickered maliciously, anticipating the show they thought to be forthcoming. "C'mon little pointy ears," the lead fellow taunted, "Let's see if you can dance!"  
  
The elven stranger fixed the mercenary with a cold glare, and without ever moving his eyes, spun out his hunting knife at blinding speed and slammed it into the table directly between two of the drunk's fingers.  
  
"What!" Cried the outraged mercenary. "You wanna fight, elf?"  
  
Rictor was about to stand up and interfere, when a robed wizard stepped over to the table.  
  
"Pardon friend," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I had hoped to exchange words with this traveler, but don't let my meager business interfere with the dealings of the Great Crimson Shield, Slayers of TWO Goblins!"  
  
The startled mercenary flushed bright red. He seemed about to reply but instead he stormed back to his table with his two comrades in tow. Minutes later the whole group stood up and started back over to the strangers' table, weapons in hand.  
  
Now Rictor did intend to intervene. He stood up, picking up his sword in its sheath, and walked over to the brawl that seemed ready to erupt. Stepping between the opposing sides, he held his hands up peacefully. "Please, this isn't worth fighting over." He started, "It's only-" but the paladin never finished, for the lead mercenary threw a clumsy punch at him.  
  
Rictor easily blocked the blow and pushed the mercenary back, but his patience had run out. He took a step back and drew his elegant looking broadsword, smoothing his blond hair back with his left hand. Swords were drawn all around the room.  
  
"No fighting in the inn." Said a voice, and the would be combatants looked over to see the innkeeper pointing a heavy repeating crossbow over the bar at them. "You can kill each other all you like outside - I don't care - But NO FIGHTING IN THE INN."  
  
"Alright then, we'll fight you three outside tomorrow at dawn," The lead mercenary said. "The field west of here."  
  
The elf and Rictor each nodded, but the wizard wasn't happy. "Why not settle this now?" he asked.  
  
"No," the mercenary shot back "tomorrow," and with that the Crimson Shield left.  
  
"I don't need you help, either of you." The elf said venomously.  
  
"I'm not doing this for you." The wizard shot back. "If we're fighting together tomorrow we'd better get acquainted. My name is Dyne Vülen. You are?"  
  
"I'm Rictor Alexander."  
  
The wild elf didn't respond at first. He walked off, saying only as he was leaving the room. "Kaven."  
  
Dyne nodded and then retired to get some sleep and go over his spells. Bidding the paladin good night. Rictor watched them go marveling at how he was ready to fight to death beside complete strangers, both of whom were so incredibly different from him.  
  
He sighed at the strangeness of it all, and slinging his sword and shield over his shoulder, he walked off to find some rest before the next day's battle. 


	3. Companions For The Road

Chapter 2:  
Companions For the Road  
  
Rictor was up early the next morning. He looked out the window of his room at the inn, to see the sun just beginning to cast it's golden glow over the fields and forests of the sword coast, driving through the veil of mist that blanketed the land. The paladin sat basking in the light for a moment. The warmth of the sun's rays drove away the last chills of the night and gave him a great sense of peace. As his eyes drifted down, however, he suddenly grew grim. Rictor found himself looking out over the very field were the duel was to take place only moments later. He reached down next to the bed and drew his antique broadsword. The weapon had a keen edge, thought it showed signs of the many battles it had fought. A magnificent engraving of a heron was placed just above the graceful curve of the hilt. The leather binding on the handle was frayed but the blade was straight and strong. This weapon would carry Rictor through this battle as it had carried him through so many others.  
  
* * * *  
  
Rictor came down and found Kaven calmly sitting at the same table as the night before, putting a fine edge on his hunting knife with a whetstone (he had never recovered his thrown axe from the cave). Dyne was sitting in a dark corner nearby mumbling to himself as he studied his spellbook. Kaven did not acknowledge his presence but Dyne nodded and smiled to him. Standing up and closing his spellbook, the wizard said, "well then, shall we? The appointed hour is upon us!" "You're gonna have a time of it" yawned the innkeeper, stepping out of the back room. "Why?" asked Dyne offhandedly. "The whole crimson shield lit out early this morning as fast as they could move they're armored rears." "What?!?" three voices snapped. "They did indeed, I doubt they ever intended to fight you guys any way." "Oh if I ever see them again they're will be quite a settling." Said Rictor. "Then hope I do not encounter them first." Remarked the hunter coolly. "You will both have to wait your turns." Countered Dyne, "for I too would like to finish this affair." "Well since you're all so determined, how bout you three do me a favor while you're out seeking vengeance." Said the innkeeper. "Don't count on it" said Kaven. " I don't do favors" "I'll pay you." "The amount?" "100 gold apiece." "Five" "Two!" "Four. "Three" "For what?" "I leant an item, a wand from my adventuring days, to a friend. He traveled to the ruins two days northwest of here in search of treasure, but I believe he was killed there. If you can retrieve the wand for me the money is yours." Kaven leaned back to think about this. The wand itself was probably worth greatly more than the reward offered, but he could find no use for it himself, and there would probably be no market for it until he reached the metropolis of Waterdeep, many leagues to the north. However, he could use the extra money and this was probably the last stop he could make if he wanted to beat the winter snows north. "I'll take it" he said. The innkeeper turned to the others. "For the three hundred, gold I'm in." said Dyne. "I would be happy to oblige you in return for your hospitality." Proclaimed the paladin.  
  
And so the three strangers became three companions.  
  
Author's note. This chapter sucks a lot. I did in a spontaneous moment and I didn't really have an Idea how these characters originally got together so I had to wing it I'll rewrite all this later so it makes sense.  
  
For people who don't really play D&D Bugbear: a big stupid creature resembling an over sized goblin. Paladin: a holy warrior serving the cause of a good deity. 


End file.
